The Newly-Appointed Lima Loser
by nostalgic-rebel
Summary: Shawn Morrison is the new kid at McKinley High, struggling with bullies and fitting in at McKinley, her mother's recent death and her troubled relationship with her father. What happens when she doesn't even fit in at Glee Club, where everyone is supposed to belong?
1. Chapter 1

My name is Shawn Morrison, and I'm a newly-appointed Lima Loser at William McKinley High School. Sure, I may not be popular or pretty or smart or a Cheerio, but I like to think that I'm a unique and proud individual, and that's what sets me apart from...

The imaginary VoiceOver in my head is suddenly interrupted by Karofsky, a 200-pound monster on the football team, shoving me into a locker. He and his equally as frightening friends walk off laughing, while I take a deep breath and dust off my shoulders.

Who am I kidding? I'm not special. I'm just a shy and slightly overweight 15-year-old girl with no self-esteem and the inability to do anything right. And I'm surrounded by people who are supposed to be going through everything I am, but are totally different.

It sucks, and so does high school.

The only thing I actually like about high school is Glee club, which is where I'm going now. It's the one place where I don't feel just like everyone else. Sure, I still feel like a loser when I walk the halls afterwards, just waiting to have a slushy thrown in my face, but I don't feel like I'm just blending in the crowd so much. I feel proud about myself, when I'm singing with people who know what it's like to be me. Or, at least I think they do.

The Glee kids are probably among the nicest kids in the school. They accept diversity, they know what it's like to be the underdog, and they aren't afraid to stand up for their friends.

The thing is, though, that they've been together for a whole year now. They know each other, they have a history together, and even though they're nice and pleasant to me, I'm not one of them and I'll never be.

I walk into the choir room and take a seat in the back corner, separated from Rachel, whose ranting on about how she hasn't done a Barbra Streisand number in almost a month to Finn, who looks bored out of his mind. Britney and Santana are busy texting (each other, probably), Puck and Sam are talking football, Mercedes and Kurt are gushing over the latest cover of Vogue, and the Asians are snuggling each other awkwardly in the corner opposite mine.

And then there's me. To keep from looking like a complete loner, I take out my phone until Mr. Schuester arrives.

"Sorry I'm late, guys," Mr. Schuester walks into the room, putting his bag down on the piano. He heads straight for the whiteboard and writes 'PASSION' in bold letters. That can only mean one thing. "This week's going to be all about passion and soul; really tapping into your deepest emotions when you're performing onstage. As a musician, you guys will have to get used to really exposing yourself in front of the audience."

"Does that mean we have to sing naked?" Finn asks. He's a bit dimwitted.

"The last time I did that Lord Tubbington sent me to a feline sanitarium for three weeks." Oh, and so is Brittany.

"No, guys," Mr. Schuester shakes his head. "I mean exposing yourself in the sense that you're letting all your emotions rise to the surface, so you become totally vulnerable to the audience."

"Mr. Schuester, if I may," Rachel lifts her finger in the air, as only Rachel Berry can. She trots up to the front of the class. "As we all know that I've already mastered this week's assignment, I think it would be fitting for me to perform my heartfelt rendition of Celine Dion's iconic hit, My Heart Will Go On."

Before Mr. Schue can protest, Brad (the piano guy) has already begun playing, and Rachel is already belting out the lyrics with her excessive, over-dramatized emotion. At least that's my opinion.

_Every night in my dreams,_

_I see you,_

_I feel you..._

I tune Rachel out, because God knows I've listened to her enough in the short three weeks I've been in Glee club. As annoying as I find Rachel, I have to admit she has an absolutely stunning voice that I'd kill for, and I'm tremendously jealous of her voice. And how pretty and smart she is, and how she's dating Finn, the hottest and nicest guy on the football team.

To be honest, though, I'm jealous of everyone in here, and even though every teenager is supposed to be insecure and compare themselves to everyone else, I know that every girl in here has never compared herself to me and had any hint of jealousy.

_Once more you open the door_

_And you're here in my heart_

_And my heart will go on and on..._

Mr. Schuester is sitting to the right of me, a few chairs down. It's plain to see that he's as bored as I am, but at least he's trying to show a little interest in his student's performance.

For the past three weeks I've been in Glee club, I've actually avoided singing on my own. The only time I actually sung alone was for the audition, only in front of Mr. Schuester, who was nice and told me the audition went great and that everyone who wanted to be in Glee club was automatically in anyway. I've tagged along with someone for the assignments, like Artie or Rachel, swaying in the background and lending a little noise power for the chorus. Other than that, I'm a complete Glee performing virgin and plan to stay that way. Because I want to stay in Glee club, and at least belong someplace in this stupid school. So, I'm anxiously awaiting the day when I'll be forced to sing all by my lonesome, and my intuition is telling me that this is the week.

_Near, far, wherever you are_

_I believe that the heart does go on..._

I feel like I'm going to wet my pants or burst into tears or do something equally as humiliating while I sit here is a paralyzed state of utter panic. How could I get out of this one? I could fake sick, or protest against something and take a week-long vow of silence, or just happen to miss Glee club every day of this week because of my dumb-blondness. Even though I'm not blonde, I doubt anyone pays attention to my hair anyways.

But, what's the point of even being in Glee club if I'm afraid to sing, or stand up in front of the group or even speak to any of them? I'm pathetic, really, and I don't belong here. People like Rachel belong here, who can totally nail a Celine Dion ballad at any given moment. Everyone here can do that, except for me. And maybe the Asian boy, but he has insanely sick dance moves that MJ himself would envy. I'm so intimated by everyone in here. I don't have any musical gifts; the only thing that's keeping me in here is Mr. Schuester's 'no exclusion' policy. When everyone finds out that I can't sing, they'll demand I'm kicked out and I'll become even more of an outcast at McKinley High than I already am.

_...And my heart will go on and on..._

When Rachel hits that high note, pitch perfect. I suddenly get a strong urge to either smack her in the face or weep. Jealousy is an awful thing.

Everyone claps for Rachel, including myself, because she certainly did the song justice despite anything I might think of her.

"That was great, Rach," Mr. Schuester says, returning to the front of the room. "But you didn't quite get at what I'm looking for in this assignment," I look over to Rachel, who looks completely shocked/disgusted/humiliated. "I want you guys to find a song with real heartfelt lyrics that describes something you've gone through in your life. I want this to be really personal, guys; I want to see some raw emotion up here by the end of the week."

Finn raises his hand. "Could this be a group assignment?"

"No, Finn," Mr. Schue says. "This is individual. I'd like each one of you to find a song that hits home, for you only."

Mr. Schuester looks directly at me. I must look absolutely shell-shocked. He smiles, "That means you, Shawn. No backup vocals this week."

Everyone's looking at me, waiting for some response, and that makes me tremendously nervous.

"Got it," I tell him.

"Good," he says. "Now I'll give you guys a few minutes to work on it, while I get settled. Then I think we should work on some choreography for sectionals."

Everyone groups into their little cliques, to talk aimlessly about which song they're going to perform. I hear Quinn spout, "This is so stupid. To hell with emotions, I'm doing Ke$ha."

Santana crosses her arms. "I really think I should dedicate a song to the fact that I'm totally surrounded by idiotic peasants."

Frankly, I think that if she weren't such a bitch, we could get along.

While everyone is ranting to their friends, despite the fact that nobody is listening to anyone but themselves, I'm just sitting here, feeling totally out of place. I glance around, but there isn't even room for me to pretend to be apart of one of them.

My eyes glance over to Mr. Schuester, who is flipping through sheets of paper at the piano, and we make eye contact. I give him an awkward smile, and take out my phone so that I look like I'm doing something. I try to read the expression on Mr. Schue's face; is it sympathetic, annoyed, confused? I can't tell, but it's probably something along the lines of 'Sorry, kid, you're outta here after you're clobbered by everyone else's performances'.

Thanks, Mr. Schue, I think to myself. That'll be great.

After a few minutes Mr. Schuester has us practice a dance routine we might do for sectionals. It's set to the Gaga song, 'Just Dance', which Rachel will be singing as the rest of us dance around her. Thankfully, I have some decent coordination so I get through the steps with some dignity. Plus, everyone is concentrating too hard on their own dance steps to notice when I fumble, and Mr. Schuester has his back to us, showing us the footwork.

When the bell rings, I'm thankful that it's over, only because I don't have to feel like I have to watch myself and pray I won't do anything stupid out of nervousness. Truly, though, I kinda enjoy Glee club, because it's far better than being at home and facing my father. And it's nice to know that I technically belong someplace.

"Good job today, guys," Mr. Schue says as we leave. "See you tomorrow."

I grab my bag from the chair and am almost out the door when Mr. Schue calls my name. "Hey, Shawn. You mind if I talk to you for a second?"

My initial instinct is to say something like, 'No, I really have to be getting home', but something stops me. My nagging conscience, curiosity, the fact I really _don't_ want to go home. I don't know, but instead of continuing on my way, I turn around and go to him beside the piano.

"How've you been liking Glee club these past few weeks?" he asks. "I haven't gotten a chance to ask you yet."

"That's all you want to ask me?" I say, sounding quite stupid, I'm sure. This is why I have to watch myself; thank God they're aren't any students in here, because enough 'stupid moments' and word gets around, thus depleting my reputation even further. High school is a tricky game.

Mr. Schuester laughs, nodding his head as he puts papers in his bag.

"It's good," I tell him, only partially lying. "Really good."

"Really?" he asks me. He looks at me and, what with my eye-contact anxiety, I feel like he can see right into my soul. I feel very vulnerable. "You didn't look too happy today. Distracted. Have you made any friends at McKinley yet?"

"Um, not really," I say, being honest. I find it weird that he, a teacher, is actually inquiring about my social life. "But it's okay, really. I've always been kind of a loner."

"These Glee kids are really great kids, Shawn. You're one of them now, so don't be afraid to try and befriend them," he puts a hand on my shoulder. "They won't bite!"

I smile. "Right, Mr. Schue. Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I just want you to feel comfortable in here, and you sure didn't look that today."

"Right."

"And," he puts grabs his bag and heads for the door. I instinctively follow him. "If you need to talk, my door is always open."

"Right," I say. "Thanks."

"No problem," he says. We're walking down the deserted halls now, which is something I secretly love to do because the school looks totally different without all the kids crowding it. More pure, more innocent and more like a 'learning environment' than a hell on earth. "So, what song are you going to do this week?"

"Um, I… uh…" I stutter, ashamed that I have no idea even though he gave us actual class time to think about it. "I… I don't really know yet."

"Don't worry; you've got time to think about it," Mr. Schue assures me. "I'm looking forward to your performance. We haven't seen you do a solo yet."

He says it like I haven't noticed. "Yeah, I know."

"You nervous?"

I chuckle to myself. "Yeah, a little."

"That's natural, Shawn," he tells me. We've reached the front doors, and he holds the door for me. "You'll be great."

"Thanks," I tell him.

He takes a keychain out of his pocket. "Have you got a ride home?"

"No," I say. "I just live a few minutes away, so I'm walking."

"Okay," he walks towards the teacher's parking lot. "I'll see you at tomorrow morning's rehearsal, right?"

"Yep," I say, walking towards the sidewalk.

"See you then, Shawn," he waves goodbye, and I do in return. "Have a good night."

"You too."

I walk towards the street, onto the sidewalk, take out my earbuds and put them in my ears. I play a playlist I've called 'Homeward Bound', because that's when I listen to it, and it's after one of my mom's favourite songs; Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel. It helps me collect my thoughts after 6 hours in school, and features some of my favourite groups– Young the Giant, The Police, Marc Cohen, The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, among others.

Simon and Garfunkel's hit, The Boxer, plays into my ears as Mr. Schue's blue minivan drives past. He waves to me from the driver's seat before turning into the street.

_I am just a poor boy  
Though my story's seldom told  
I have squandered my resistance  
For a pocket full of mumbles such are promises…_


	2. Chapter 2

When I reach the door of my house, I really don't want to go in. I have no idea what I'm facing. Once upon a time, life was easy. I knew was either walking into Heaven or Hell– Heaven, where my father was in a decent mood and wouldn't hurt my mother, or Hell, where my father wasn't in a good mood; drunk and abusive. At least back then, I had my mother to protect me. When things got too bad, we'd run away; hop into the car and drive until we'd gone far enough away from him. Now, it's either Hell or the awkward situation where I hide in my room until dinnertime, at which point I eat and then run back to my room. It's so awful to say, but I don't trust my father. I don't like being in a room alone with him because he's like a stray dog, either brutal and snarling or distant and afraid. And when he's afraid, I can't comfort him because I'm afraid, too.

I stand in front of the door. It's kind of chilly out here, the brisk October wind blowing against my face. I wonder to myself whether or not it would be warmer inside.

With hesitant hands, I open up the door. "Dad?"

There's no response, which is unusual. I take off my shoes and tip-toe into the living room, where I expect to see him passed out on the couch. When he isn't there, I peer into his room, and when he isn't in there either, I call out his name a few more times.

I go in the kitchen, where I find a note on the counter. I breath a sigh of relief when I read it:

_Shawn,_

_Got a job interview._

_Will be home around 6:30._

I'm relieved it isn't a suicide note or anything. In fact, I thought it was kind of nice that he bothered to tell me that he'd be out late, and that he got an interview. He's been looking for a job since we moved here a month ago, so it's nice that he finally got an interview. I'm quite pleased with the note, actually, until I reach the end, where he signed it:

_- Rob._

I know what you must be thinking– so what? I guess that's what I should be thinking, too, but it brings a tear to my eye. I never call my father by his first name, always Dad. I've called him Dad since I first learned how to talk, and I thought he considered himself my Dad. Now, though, it's like he's addressed the gap in our relationship; made it official.

We're not Dad-and-daughter anymore. We're just two strangers, living in the same house.

For the first time since my mother went away, I feel truly alone. I have nobody, literally. I walk alone in this world.

Mom is really gone.

I'm not really religious. I model my religious beliefs after that of my mother, who followed the 10 Commandments (because, to her, they just made good sense) and believed in Heaven. I like to believe in Heaven because that means that, somewhere, my mother still exists. I could never wrap my head around the fact that I could talk to her, or God, or anyone else not physically on Earth, but I do think that when I listen to music and think about my mother, or whoever I want to 'talk' with, the emotions I feel running while I listen can reach her. Music, to me, is the tether that connects me to her for eternity. As long as I have music, she won't ever be totally gone.

I drop my father's (…_Rob's_) note and run into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I jump onto my bed, put my earbuds in my ears, and go to the playlist I've called 'Poems, Prayers & Promises'. Another one of my mother's favourite songs. I select the song, 'Yesterday' by The Beatles, and close my eyes, letting the melody, the words flow through my veins and across my heart, and somehow to my mother.

_Yesterday_

_All my troubles seemed so far away_

_Now it looks as though they're here to stay_

_Oh, I believe in yesterday_

_Suddenly_

_I'm not half the man I used to be_

_There's a shadow hanging over me_

_Oh, yesterday came suddenly…_

I know it's supposed to be about when a woman leaves a man and he doesn't know why, but I don't think it should be limited to just that. To me, it's about my mother. About how once upon a time, life was so easy and so beautiful, and then I blinked. And suddenly she was gone, and I don't know why.

_Why'd she have to go?_

_I don't know, she wouldn't say_

_I said something wrong_

_Now I long for yesterday_

_Yesterday love was such an easy game to play_

_Now I need a place to hide away_

_Oh, I believe in yesterday_

...

When I wake up, it's pitch black in my room. My earbuds are still in my ears, my right ear uncomfortably sore because the earbud has been pressing into it for so long. I turn my iPhone on, and see that I'd played the entire playlist I use to talk with my mother. I smile, thinking to myself that she must've heard if I played the whole thing. Maybe she made me sleep, to make the pain go away for a little while. Sounds like something she'd do.

I sit up, take earbuds from my ears, and turn to the clock.

3:06 AM.

That's awfully early, but considering the fact that I went to sleep at 6 PM, I guess it really isn't.

I get up from my bed and walk down the hallway. I look into my father's bedroom to find him fast asleep, under the covers of his own warm bed. I remember a time when, if I'd fallen asleep in the car or in the family room, my Dad would carry me to bed, tuck me under the covers and kiss me goodnight.

Times sure have changed.

The lights in the living room and the kitchen are still on, as well as the TV, because my lazy and/or forgetful father didn't turn them off before going to sleep. And he blames me for the expensive electric bills. A dirty plate and glass are sitting on the kitchen counter.

Instead of cleaning up after him like he might've expected me to do, I deride to do the exact opposite. I go have a shower, put on my jeans and my favourite comfy hoodie, take twenty bucks of the money my father has sitting on the counter, grab my bag and leave the house.

I've always wanted to do this; sneak out of the house in the middle of the night to explore the night world. It's so peaceful, yet dangerous and mysterious. The only downside I can see now, walking down the street, is the cold wind blowing against my face. I quickly solve this by turning around, so the wind is at my back.

It leads me in the direction of McKinley High.

…

You know you're a nerd when you end up at your school at 4 in the morning. I wouldn't say that I feel like a nerd, though; I feel badass, or as badass as I'll ever be. I've been a goody-two-shoes all my life, and it hasn't been until now that I listen to music during class or let myself show up late. I guess that's my streak of teenage rebellion, or maybe this is.

I'm sitting on the fence surrounding the school field, facing the empty bleachers. I imagine everyone looking at me, expecting me to do something. They expect me to do one thing, but in my heart I want to do another. They expect me to be happy and pleasant, to put a smile on my face and pretend to be okay when I'm really, really not.

Nobody cares about me anymore. My father will wake up in a couple hours and have no clue that I even got up at 3 AM. He'll just go on with his day, because he doesn't even have a daughter anymore. As far as he's concerned, his daughter died in the car crash along with his wife.

I stop myself, what I was thinking. I moan aloud, "Aw, God."

My hands are shaking uncontrollably, my eyes releasing salty tears like rain clouds, but I find a way to dig my earbuds out of my pockets and plug them into my phone. I know exactly which song to play.

As the guitar intro plays, I walk out into the field. I take a deep breath, letting the tears fall from my face, and the music flow through me. But this time, it's just for me.

When the song begins, I run around the field and belting out the lyrics, trying to somehow express how I feel. I don't want to make it better; that's not my intention. I just want to make sense of it.

_Life's too short to even care at all_

_Whoa oh_

_I'm losing my mind_

_Losing my mind _

_Losing control_

_These fishes in the sea they're staring at me_

_Whoa oh_

_A wet world aches for a beat of a drum_

_Oh_

_If I could find a way to see this straight_

_I'd run away_

_To some fortune that I should have found_

_By now_

_I'm waiting for this cough syrup to come down_

_Come down_

_Life's too short to even care at all_

_Whoa oh_

_I'm coming up now _

_Coming up now_

_Out of the blue, oh_

_These zombies in the park_

_They're looking for my heart_

_Whoa oh, oh oh_

_A dark world aches for a splash of the sun_

_Oh oh_

_If I could find a way to see this straight_

_I'd run away_

_To some fortune that I should have found_

_By now_

_And so I run now to the things they said_

_Could restore me_

_Restore life_

_The way it should be_

_I'm waiting for this cough syrup to come down_

_Life's too short to even care at all_

_Whoa oh_

_I'm losing my mind_

_Losing my mind_

_Losing control _

_If I could find a way to see this straight_

_I'd run away_

_To some fortune that I should have found by now_

_So I run now to the things they said_

_Could restore me_

_Restore life_

_The way it should be_

_I'm waiting for this cough syrup to come down_

_One more spoon of cough syrup now_

_Whoa oh_

_One more spoon of cough syrup now_

_Whoa oh_

I stop in my tracks when the song ends, my heart racing. I collapse onto the field and just lie there, out of both exhaustion and life. I'm so tired, I think to myself. So sick and tired of life. I'm tired of being an outcast, having no friends, being alone in this world. being ashamed of who I am, being terrified of everything. All I want to do is run off, live life under my own terms, but how can I do that if I can't even lift myself off the ground?

How, I think to myself, am I going to survive this?

I can hardly breathe when I realize I might not.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**** Thanks for reading my story! This chapter is kind of short, due to a severe case of writer's block... I just can't seem to come up with what will happen next! I'd really love your suggestions/ideas/comments, so please review and tell me them! You'd be helping me out a lot :)**

**If you like my story, you really should check out truthseeker97's story, Boulevard of Broken Dreams! It was the inspiration for this story, and it's by far the best story I've read on here! Also, a shout-out to Alex B. Goode; thanks very much for the encouraging reviews :)**

**Enjoy!**

There's something so graceful about watching the sun rise. All those beautiful colours surrounding the sun as it climbs up into the sky, the new subtle warmth of the sun… It makes my mind go all fuzzy, my eyes glaze over, and it feels like all of my emotions just float out of my body and drift away in the soft morning breeze.

This must be what it's like to be high.

I'm sitting against the back of the school now, watching the sun in the sky and the world pass me by, all alone. I've been alone plenty of times before now, so you'd think I'd be used to it, but I suppose one doesn't ever really accept things they don't understand. I wonder to myself how many people are watching the sun rise, too? If they're watching the sun rise, the same sun that I'm watching, are we really watching it together?

Suddenly I don't feel as alone, but I'm still lonely.

I wonder what's going to happen to all those people today. They probably have busy lives: jobs, families, school, children to take care of. Some of them probably have bigger problems than I do, more drama going on in their lives than I'll ever experience in my lifetime. I wonder how many tears they've shed, or times they've been scared or laughed, or lost someone, or loved someone who didn't love them back?

I suppose there are some people who are even more sad than myself. Even more confused, even more terrified and even more troubled.

Now I feel small. Alone and small; is that any way to feel?

Maybe it is a way to feel. Those people out there; they have their problems, but I don't know about them and I don't care about them because they aren't apart of me, just as my problems are not any concern of theirs.

My sad story, like theirs, don't matter at all.

And maybe that's okay.

...

I listen to music for the 3 hours I have to wait before Glee rehearsal. I considered going back home to change into another hoodie, but I decided against it. I didn't want to go home, face my father. I think it's so sad, that I'm afraid to go home. Once upon a time, I couldn't wait to go home, to escape the bullies at school. Now I couldn't wait to go to school, to escape the bully at home.

Oh, how times have changed.

When the clock on my phone strikes 7:30, I pick up my things and walk into the school. I glance at my reflection in a trophy cabinet near the front doors and, as usual, I don't like what I see. I don't like how fat I am and how my hair never stays in place and how my nose is too big and how I have deep circles under my eyes. I suppose my 'sunrise high' hasn't completely worn off yet, because instead of trying to fix me like I usually do, I just walk away.

_Life's too short to even care at all… _


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hey there! Thanks to a lot of great support from you guys and a little dose of life, I've recovered from my writer's block! It only took me an hour or so to write this chapter, and I'm really looking forward to where this story is going. Your reviews/favourites/follows are much appreciated! ****Thanks again for all the wonderful support!**

******Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

"Hey, Shawn," Mr. Schuester greets me immediately as I walk into the choir room.

I nod and smile in reply. I don't feel like talking, and I'm to the point where I'm going to act however I want and, therefore, do whatever I want. Nobody cares anyway.

He's leaning at the piano, pouring over some sheet music with none other than Rachel Berry, who's looking totally offended that I stole Mr. Schue's attention from her. About half of the group is already here, sitting and chatting at the chairs. Mr. Schue cocks his head, looking at me. He's studying me, my every movement; I can tell. Which makes me feel very vulnerable, because I know he can see right through me. "You look tired."

I nod my head and say, "I am."

Mr. Schuester smiles and nods, before turning his attention back to Rachel.

I sit down at my chair, taking out my trusty friend, iPhone. People say that I use it way too much (actually, just 3 teachers have said that, but I talk to teachers more than I talk to anyone else), but they don't understand how much it means to me. It sounds so stupid, that I have such an attachment to this electronic device, but it's my best friend most of the time. It makes me look like I'm doing something when I'm in a situation where I have no friends. It helps me escape the reality I so hate living in. And, it was the last present my Mom ever gave to me, as a surprise late-birthday present. Approximately a week before she left.

I take a deep breath as I flip absentmindedly through my phone, and then manage to crack a smile when I realize I've kind of replaced my mother with a phone.

Frankly, I liked what I had before far better. I'd give up my phone in less than a millisecond if I could have Mom back.

Tears start to come into my eyes, and I put my face in my hands, pretending to wipe my eyes like I'm just tired. Control yourself, I think to myself.

No wonder no one wants to be friends with me. I have an unnatural emotional attachment to a phone and I randomly burst into tears. Really not cool.

"Okay, guys," Mr. Schuester says after a few minutes, once most of the group is here. "I think we're ready to go. Are any of you guys ready to perform your 'passion' songs?"

Everyone looks around at the others, waiting for someone to raise their hand or just waltz up to the front.

I count in my head. One, two...

"Given that I certainly don't need lots of time to perform an excellent ballad, I'm confident that I could lead the group by going first."

Three.

Rachel, right on time, jumps from her seat and to the front of the room.

Oh, the perks of being a wallflower. You get to know everyone around you, and I almost think it's a shame that they don't even know it, let alone notice it.

"Sounds great, Rach," Mr. Schue says, sitting at the empty seat beside me. "Let's see what you've got."

Mr. Schue smiles politely to me, and then focusses his attention on Rachel, being a model audience member, while the rest of the group are either whispering to their friend or texting on their not-so-discretely hidden phones.

Rachel gives the piano guy the cue that she's ready, and I lean back in my chair as she begins.

_From this moment life has begun_

_From this moment you are the one…_

My eyes open wide in shock as I throw my hand over my mouth.

Shit.

Just shit.

Of course, out of all the songs out there, out of all the great and passionate ballads she could've decided to sing, she just had to choose 'From This Moment On'.

_Right beside you is where I belong_

_From this moment on._

I swear, someone out there hates me. Sure, I agree with most of the rest of the world; it's a beautiful song. That's what my mother thought, too. But when it was played at her funeral, the _last_ song played at her funeral as her casket was being lowered into the ground, it kind of ruined it for me.

_I give my hand to you with all my heart_

_I can't wait to live my life with you…_

You must be thinking that it's an incredibly inappropriate song to be played at a funeral. I agree, but my father insisted on it. Because it was their song. They played it at their wedding, and on all their anniversaries they danced to it. It was just their song, and now whenever I hear it, I melt into a puddle of tears.

I can't get the picture of the casket going down into the ground, the last glimpse I ever really had of Mom.

_You and I will never be apart_

_My dreams came true because of you…_

Hold it together, Shawn. You've got to hold it together. Control yourself. It might be the hardest thing you'll ever do, but you've got to keep cool. You break down now, and you're screwed. Totally screwed. Don't mess this up. She's been dead for two months, Shawn. She's gone. It's time to get over it. She's gone, Shawn.

She's just gone.

_From this moment, as long as I live_

_I will love you, I promise you this…_

I take a deep breath. In fact, I take a series of them. I can't imagine what I look like. I just keep telling myself: She's gone, Shawn. Hold it together. She's gone, Shawn. Hold it together…

Beside me, I can see Mr. Schue noticing my shuffling, with a confused expression on his face.

He mouths to me, 'Are you okay?'

I nod in response as I take another deep breath and rub my face with my hands.

She's gone, Shawn. Hold it together.

_There is nothing, I wouldn't give_

_From this moment on…_

She's gone, Shawn. And there's nothing you can do about it.

I put my hand over my mouth as I let out a sob and tears literally burst from my eyes. I run out the door, not looking behind me, as I gasp for breaths and continue to sob.

I run down the hall.

My parents used to be happy, for God sakes! They were happy once, and then my father ruined it all. He crushed her, and for all I care, he killed her. It wasn't some overtired elderly guy in a Chevy that killed her, it was my father. And he had the nerve, _the nerve_, to play that song at his wife's funeral? It was their song, and they stopped being a couple long before she was dead.

I trip over my feet and fall to the floor. And, for the second time today, I don't get up. I fall to my knees and sob, choking for air as a river of tears rushes from my eyes.

God, I'm such a fucking mess.

I hear footsteps from behind me, and I don't even care who it is. It's too late to do anything to save my reputation; I've already made a scene and brought the attention of all the Glee club towards me.

I choke for air as I turn around.

The entire Glee club is standing at the far end of the hall in a big group, Rachel standing right in front. Mr. Schue is walking towards me.

I must be in a dream or something. A nightmare. Seriously, I think. This just can't be happening. Everything. My life. I must be asleep, trapped in the worst nightmare ever.

This just can't be happening.

I let out another awful-sounding sob as I turn back around and put my head in my hands, on my knees. So many tears, sobbing, gasping for breaths, head pounding… Not happening. Can't be happening.

"Go, guys," I hear Mr. Schue's voice behind me. "Back in the choir room, come on."

It isn't long before I feel his hand on my back and see him kneel down to my level.

I continue to sob, uncontrollably, and if my face weren't already red from that, it is now from the embarrassment.

I think I've convinced myself that this most certainly is not happening.

"It's okay," he says to me softly. "Let it out. It's okay…"

Surprised, I turn to him. I never expected him to actually try to console me. At this point, though, I'm not really in the mood to actually appreciate it.

By the time I pull myself together, I'm beyond the point of being embarrassed. So far from that point, I suppose, that I let Mr. Schue literally hold me while I weep.

"I'm sorry," I say to him, sniffling.

"It's alright," he tells me, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb. He stands and helps me up. "I'll dismiss the other kids and then we'll talk in my office, okay?"

Mr. Schue leads me, with his hands on my shoulders, to his office, which is just across the hall.

"No," I say. "I'm fine."

I must look super convincing with my puffy red eyes and the tears dried to my face.

Mr. Schuester looks at me, right at me. You know, right through me. He can see everything, I know that, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying to hide. "You're talking to me, Shawn. Now, take a seat and I'll be back in a moment."

He has me sit down in the seat across from his desk before running out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

What have I done?

You really screwed up, Shawn. Totally screwed. You messed this up.

She's been dead for two months.


	5. Chapter 5

Realizing that your life is totally ruined has to be the worst feeling in the world. When you realize that you suddenly have no place in the world, no place to call home, no place where you know you'll be happy…. God, it really hurts.

Sitting in Mr. Schue's office, which is adjacent to the choir room, I can hear the muffled voices of the Glee kids.

"What the hell happened?"

"Is she sick?"

"Doesn't matter, guys," That's Mr. Schue's voice. "Glee club's over for the morning. We'll meet after school in the auditorium. Rachel, you can finish your performance then."

"That was completely unprofessional, not to mention rude and–" Rachel's voice complains.

I can hear Rachel go on and on about how rude and awful and attention-seeking and conceited I am, among other things, and I just listen. Maybe it looks like her words bounce right off me, but they're actually seeping in. I wonder, would she be saying all these things if she knew I could hear her? Possibly, but I doubt she has the guts.

I hear Mr. Schue say something about not judging me, and even though I guess I'm thankful that he's standing up for me, I know it doesn't matter. Kids have a whole lot more power in a school than teachers ever will, and teachers don't even want to help in the first place. Sure, they might say some nice words or break up some fights in the hall or offer to help a kid, but all they care about is the money.

Sad truth.

When Mr. Schue walks in and sits down beside me, I continue to stare forward. I said this morning that I was going to do and act however I want, and right now I feel angry and humiliated and upset and sad, and all these other unidentifiable, _awful_ emotions. This lethal combination, I guess, makes me just feel numb. Maybe it's like overdosing on pills; you feel a couple of emotions and they're in full strength, but you take too many and you just go numb.

That's all I feel; numbness. And I don't even care.

"Shawn?"

I don't look at him, don't acknowledge that he's even there at all. I try to block out his voice, not listen. What could he have to say to my anyway?

"Shawn?" He repeats. He puts a hand gently on my knee. "Shawn, look at me."

I keep staring ahead. Why should I please him? Why should I do what he says? Why should I humour him with obedience?

Because, in the end, I'm such a goody-two-shoes.

I look over to him.

"You want to tell me what just happened there?" he asks gently. His eyes look so concerned, so much so that I hate him for it. Part of me just wants to tell him everything; tell him about how my mother left and my father is a stranger, how I don't feel comfortable anywhere and how I'm just terrified of life in general. I want to tell him… but I know I can't.

I shake my head. And it hurts.

_So fucking bad._

"I can help you if you tell me what's the matter," he reminds me. Tears start to fall from my eyes, because I know he can't help me. He just can't. It wouldn't be worth it, wouldn't be worth _me_, and it would just make it worse because I don't know how my father would react. All I know is that it wouldn't be good.

"No," I say, just above a whisper. "It really wouldn't."

I didn't expect Mr. Schue to even hear me, but he leans in and asks, "Why not?"

I stand up, suddenly feeling like I can't breath in this office. "Just let me be, okay? Should I need any help, I'll ask you for it."

Heading for the door, I grab my bag, which Mr. Schue must've brought in for me from the choir room. Mr. Schue stops me.

"Shawn, wait," He stands up, reaches over his desk and writes something on a piece of paper. He walks over to me and hands it to me. "If you need help or need to talk, day or night, that's my cell number."

I put it in my pocket. "Thanks."

"You going to be in the auditorium after school?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe we can talk then, alright?" he says. I shrug and nod my head. "Are you gonna be okay?"

I sigh. "I'm always okay."

I walk out the door and walk straight for the bathroom, past all the people who got to school early. I fall to the ground in the handicap stall and I cry, because I know that it'll never get better.

Life just keeps getting worse and worse. And there's not a thing I can do to stop it.

Might as well be over.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Hey guys! Sorry it's been a while since I've updated, I've been pretty busy with school and such. I'm warning you, this chapter is pretty dark and somewhat graphic (self-harm), but I think it reflects on how Shawn is feeling pretty well. I didn't expect for the story to take this route, but I just started writing and this is what came out. And, as always, thanks for the wonderful support! Your reviews/favourites/follows are so encouraging. :)**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

I spend way too much time in the McKinley High washroom.

Usually I'm in here at lunchtime, after trekking through four gruelling hours of being surrounded by these idiotic peasants I'm supposed to call my peers.

Today, though, I couldn't even stand an hour. According to my loyal iPhone, the time is 10:28.

I didn't even last through the first class.

Yeah, news at McKinley travels fast.

At first, it was just a lot of lies. A lot of ridiculous lies, that I only heard. One about my 'mental breakdown' being the result of Rachel telling me I couldn't sing, another about my mental breakdown actually being caused by me not liking her song choice. Apparently, I was kicking and screaming and freaking out in the hall and Mr. Schue had to drag me into his office to calm me down. I heard the word 'emo', and 'psyco' a couple of times.

And I could take all that.

Then people realized that the girl they were talking about was in their class. I guess I should be thankful that I'm so unpopular, or else I never would've lasted the hour I did.

"What made you do it, you little emo?!"

"Everybody be careful, guys… she might have another breakdown."

"Hey, that'd be fun! You going to freak out for us, psycho?"

I didn't know what to do, surrounded by people mocking and taunting me. I didn't know what to do, so I went to the washroom. And because I'm such a polite little wimp, I asked the teacher if I could.

So, here I am. In the washroom. Afraid to go out, wondering what the hell will happen to me when I do, how I'm going to survive my next class and what everyone is going to think of me when I go to Glee after school.

I really should skip Glee. I doubt they'd want me there anyhow. But I promised Mr. Schue that I'd go, and he wanted 'talk' then. But I don't want to talk. What would we even talk about? My little 'incident', I know, but what's there to talk about? It happened and, as much as I want to, I can't go back in time and erase it. I just can't. And now everyone in the school hates me, and I can't change that, either. No, wait, scratch that– _everyone_ hates me. Every single person I know thinks I'm a freak, and God knows they'd all be better off without me. The whole world would be better off without me. That's the long and short of it, and talking about it will just illuminate the fact that my life is ruined. That I have nothing to live for. That all these thoughts of my worthlessness and taking me closer and closer to a point that terrifies me more than I've ever been terrified before.

I can't think straight; I can't even breathe straight. My breaths are coming out in short, choppy gasps. So many things are racing through my brain, so many phrases and emotions and thoughts and crazy things that I'm expecting my head will explode any second now. It's pounding, just like a time bomb. Imagine if there were a time bomb ticking in my head, ready to explode whenever I wanted it to.

What a peaceful way that would be to go.

_Holy shit._

No, you can't think like that. You can't think like that at all, Shawn. You're already considered a psychopathic emo, thinking like this is only making matters worse.

But, nobody can get in my head, right? Nobody can hear my thoughts, nobody can control my thoughts. They are just thoughts… nobody cares about me, why would anyone care at all about my thoughts? It's so stupid, because the people who 'spread awareness' about depression always say the bravest thing you can do is reach out for help from family and friends (neither of which I have, but that's beside the point), but what are you really reaching out for? Help? Guidance? Support? What is 'reaching out for help' really going to accomplish? People pitying you? People being terrified of you, anxiously awaiting the moment that you'll snap and hurt someone? And, if that happens, all they'll care about is if you'll hurt them. They'll just leave, like everyone does eventually. And you'll only be left with yourself.

And I guess that's when you'll kill yourself.

Look at me, in a puddle of tears on the filthy washroom floor, apparently contemplating suicide.

I feel so grown up.

I never, ever, in a million years or more, would've imagined being here right now, thinking about what I'm thinking about right now, ten years ago. Ten years ago, I was five. I was this tiny little thing, filled with nothing but smiles and laughter and sunshine and happiness. I spent my days playing with my Barbie dolls and singing and playing and all those wonderful things. I was the picture of innocence, one of utmost purity, and nobody would've ever thought that suicide was in my future. I was just a kid; just a little girl with bows in her hair and a smile on her face. I was a 'sweetheart' and a 'little munchkin', and I was Mommy' little girl.

I wasn't a suicidal girl.

If I were to actually do it, wouldn't I get to see Mom again? I wouldn't just see my Mom again, no; I'd actually _be_ with Mom again. We'd be together again, mother and daughter, and that's all I've wanted for the last two months. All I've wanted is to hug her and see her smile and smell her perfume and hear her voice and tell her all the things I never got to say. That's all I want to do, and with her is the only place I want to be.

That is one thing I'm quite sure of.

If I were to do it, how would I go about it? You know, there's a lot of ways to go. There's suffocating, drowning, poisoning, burning, hanging, shooting, jumping… A lot of ways. A lot of ways to go. I remember seeing this chart on the internet a while back, a big long list of all the ways to commit suicide, ranked by how painful it is. I should probably try and find that list out, shouldn't I? You know, be educated on my death. Sounds like a plan. But does it even matter? God knows I probably deserve the pain killing myself would give me.

I don't even know how I could go about doing it now. Might as well go it sooner rather than later, right?

My eyes go wide when I realize how I thought that with so much ease. Might as well get 'er done.

Looking around the washroom stall, I look for something that could end my life. Something that looks deadly. I look up at the bars connecting all the stalls… if I had a rope, I could hang myself, couldn't I? Or a belt. I have one of those around my fat waist. But I doubt the beams are high enough and if I'm thinking anything clearly right now, it'd be that I want to get the job done. I don't was to survive. I don't want to have to live with the humiliation of another failure.

Something sharp. That thought comes into my head, because I know that sharp things can kill people. A blade could kill me, right? But it'd have to be a big blade; a sharp one. I remember that I have a pencil sharpener in my backpack, still in it's package. I grab my bag from across the stall and open the zipper to the pocket it's in. Taking it out, I shut my eyes, feeling the tears that have been continuously falling from my eyes this whole time, because I realize that I might just be facing the thing that will end my life. It'll be in my hands.

That's terribly, awfully surreal.

The five year old me wouldn't be impressed, would she?

I open my eyes, and in my hands is a little package, with a blue sharpener behind clear plastic, on cardboard with the words 'PENCIL SHARPENER!' in bold, bright pink letters. It looks so primary, certainly not a device of self-destruction. It even has a little label that says it's not suitable for children under 5 years of age.

It's almost innocent.

But then you look at it through the eyes of a suicidal 15-year-old girl and you see a whole different picture. You see the pretty blue sharpener, and you see beside it the extra blade, just begging to be used. I can practically feel it on my skin already, and the blood slipping out of my body.

It's a morbid feeling but, God, there's something sickly right about it.

I rip the cardboard off the back of it, and the blade drops into my hands. I hold it up to the light as an awful-sounding sob escapes my lips. The silver edge is glistening. It looks sharp. It looks lethal.

Sufficient to cause death.

Holding it between my fingers, I slide my other finger across the blade, hoping to see a thin cut appear.

_Holy fuck._

_I'm actually about to do this._

To my disappointment, no blood appears. My skin doesn't even break, so I push the blade down against my thumb, harder and harder until my mouth opens as I gasp for air. I see the blood coming out from under the silver. When I take it out, there is a cut. There is blood.

But it's not enough to kill me. Even if I pushed down as hard as I could, on my neck or on my wrists, it wouldn't be enough to kill me. It would just be enough to hurt, and once the pain was over I'd have to go back to the real world.

And I don't want to do that anymore.

A few years ago, I had a friend names Hannah who cut her wrists. She never told me she did, until one night when she texted me, telling me that she was in the process of cutting her wrists (and had been doing so for 5 months) and was about to kill herself. I called the Hannah's and she ended up in the psychiatric ward of the hospital overnight. And then she came back to school and never spoke to me again.

But she'd been cutting for months. Nobody had ever noticed. Including me.

Nobody even cared.

Nobody cares about me, either.

I lift up my sleeve, and take a good look at the skin on my wrist and up my arm. It's just skin. It's just big, ugly fat and skin. There are no cuts and no scars.

I press the blade against my wrist, and that all becomes history. I gasp out in pain as I drag the bloody blade across my skin. I watch as the blade digs in and blood flows out, and a scar appears.

I do it over and over again.

Because I don't deserve to go to Heaven. I don't deserve to be with Mom, that beautiful human being who is now an angel. That must be why she went to Heaven; she was just too good for this awful, ugly world. I don't deserve to be with her. I was selfish for even wanting to be with her. She was, and still is, perfect. I'm not perfect. She wouldn't, and shouldn't, want to be with me anymore.

And, since I love her more than anyone in the world, I have to let her go. And I have to feel the pain.

Once my whole forearm is covered in scars, I just stare at it. I look at all the blood, dripping from my arm onto my jeans and the filthy white bathroom tiles, and all the scars. There are 15 scars there, staring back at me. You'd think that I'd be ashamed of this mess I've just created; this gruesome piece of art I've cut into myself, but I'm not. It gives me this numb sense of satisfaction. Because I've finally done something that gives me the pain I deserve.

God, that's just fucking sad.

I pull my sleeve back down, and wrap the blood-stained blade with toilet paper before placing it back in the inside pocket of my backpack. I know I'll be needing it soon. I take another piece of toilet paper and wipe the blood from the floor tiles, and I flush it down the toilet. I sling my backpack over my shoulder. I open the bathroom stall.

I walk back to class.

The teacher gives me a stern look as I walk in. I guess I don't blame her; I was in the washroom for twenty-five minutes. If she knew all that I did in there, would she still give me the stern look?

Probably.

I sit in my desk, and the taunting begins again.

"Were you having another mental breakdown out there, you little psycho?"

"Did you have to come back, emo?"

"I don't even know what you're doing here. You should be in some crazy house, right?"

I ignore the comments. I just stare forward, listening as I grasp my arm. I can still feel the blood seeping out of the cuts. I can still feel the pain.

I listen to their words, and I feel the pain in my arm, because I deserve it.

I deserve all the pain.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:**** Sorry it's taken me so long to update! I've been quite busy lately, and this just came to me last night. Not my best chapter, I know, but it leads quite well into what I have planned for the rest of the story. I hope you enjoy it!**

When the bell dismisses us for lunch, I get out of that classroom as fast as I can. I don't look at anyone, or anything, I just walk. Not that I know where I'm going (probably to my second home, the washroom), I just know I need to get there fast.

"Hey!" I hear a voice say behind me when I get into the hall. I figure it's some idiot whose though of yet another idiotic line ridiculing my mental state. As if I don't do that already. I just walk faster, but the voice follows me. "Hey, Shawn! Shawn, it's Finn! Wait up!"

I turn around and, sure enough, Finn Hudson is running towards me. At first I think he must have something mocking to say, or he's about to pester me with questions about the whole thing, and I almost don't blame him. Those kids harassing me the whole class were mostly football jocks, and that's his clique. I'm surprised he didn't put his two cents in along with the rest of them. Instead, though, he surprises me.

"You didn't look okay all through class," he says, looking genuinely sympathetic and concerned. "No wonder, those idiots were harassing you the whole time."

I just look at him, not sure of what to say. I can't even imagine why or how this conversation is happening right now. I stay quiet and let him continue.

"I... I'm sorry I let them do that to you," he says, looking around us and lowering his voice. I guess he doesn't want any of his football friends to hear us. "I should've stood up for you."

I just look at Finn, dumbfounded. I mutter, "What?"

"I should've stood up for you," he repeats. "Us Glee kids, we're like a family. We stick up for each other."

"I hardly count as a Glee kid, Finn," I say. "I'm not one of you guys."

Finn, noticing that the empty choir room is nearby, ushers me in and shuts the door behind him. We stand in the middle of the room, and he looks down to me. "What do you mean?"

"We both know you guys are already a tight group," I say. "You guess are a family, and I'm just this intruder..."

"Look, don't say that, okay?"

"But it's true!" I almost shout, tears welling up in my eyes. I guess I'm overly emotional today. Can you blame me?

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he says, voice calm, as he puts a hand on my shoulder. I grab my arm instinctively, as to protect it from Finn's view. It's still tender, still very there. Oh, yeah, I'm okay. "I don't know what your story is, or why you freaked and ran out this morning, but nobody deserves to be treated like that."

"Those kids are your friends," I inform him.

Finn shakes his head with a grin. "Nah. Those kids dropped me after I joined Glee club. They're a bunch of assholes."

I nod my head in agreement.

"You're coming to Glee after school, right?" Finn asks. "In the auditorium?"

I shrug. "Um, yeah. Guess so."

"Good," Finn says, smiling as he puts his arm up for me to high-five and I return it quickly. I felt so weird, talking to Finn Hudson, and nervous. It turns out, though, that he actually wanted to do the whole high-five/hand-holding thing.

And my sleeve falls down. And Finn's smile disappears when he sees blood.

"Whoa," he says, releasing his grip and moving his other hand, about to pull down my sleeve. "What happened th-"

I pull my hand back.

"Nothing," I snap in panic-mode, still trying to act as calm and innocent as possible. "It's fine."

"Are you okay?" He says, ignoring what I just said. His eyes are stuck on my arm, which I'm holding protectively against my stomach. "That was... There's a lot of blood..."

"I'm fine, okay? I just..." I hesitate. "I fell... This morning, okay? It's not that bad."

"You didn't..." Finn starts, and then moves his eyes up to mine. They look innocent and puppy-dog-like, full of concern. "Did you cut yourself?"

"No!" I say immediately.

Finn looks back as me, and I know he knows I was lying.

Shit.

"You should... Um... Ms. Pillsbury..." Finn spits out in a daze.

"Just don't tell anyone, okay?" I ask.

"I..." He resists. "Just... um... You..."

"Please?"

Finn cracks an uneasy smile. "Okay. I won't."

"Thanks."

"When did you..." Finn's eyes return to my arm.

"In the washroom," I tell him, but I don't know why. Maybe I feel like I have to tell someone. "Like, an hour ago."

"Because of those kids," Finn states.

I don't respond, instead backing up and moving out the door. "I'll see you at rehearsal."

And I leave Finn in there, and I go to the washroom. Because I don't know what to do.


End file.
